


Wolf in Striped Clothing

by corvus_bend



Category: Bee Movie (2007)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 09:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18233315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvus_bend/pseuds/corvus_bend
Summary: Barry Benson was the hottest guy on the block.He was also the hottest rapist on the block, and he *loved* it.





	Wolf in Striped Clothing

PART 1

“Hi, my name is Barry B. Benson. I’ll be your new coworker from now on.”

You look up from your laptop where you, a rookie journalist with a heart of gold, were typing your newest article and stare into the abyss before you. Two bright blue eyes stare back, their crystal clear depths enclosing you in a comforting embrace of love. The handsome honey bee smiles, his rotund, furred body vibrating from the rapid beating of his tiny, crystalline wings. They almost remind you of sugar candies.

After a few seconds, you realise you have yet to reply. “Ah,” you stutter out, “I-I am Y/N.” Blushing, you fiddle with the buttons of your cyan cardigan. “It’s n-nice t-t-to meet you a-as well, Mr Benson.” The bee chuckles, obviously charmed by your personality. You give him a small smile, not too wide and not too flat--just enough to let out a piece of your inner joy. 

“Well, I’ll see you then, Y/N.” Clicking his tongue flirtatiously, he winks at you and flutters away, giving you one last, longing glance before leaving your office cubicle. Once you cannot see him, you grasp at your heart, attempting to calm it down. After a while, it settles back into a normal rhythm, and you are all alone once more. 

“You too.”

You’ve always had a crush on Barry Benson ever since he first came on Live Television to inform the world of its misdeeds against bees. And even after all of that had passed, the crush never seemed to go away. It became somewhat disgusting, like an itch that never goes away; bees, and animals in general, were forbidden fruit. Every thought of the handsome bee just fueled the fire of romance even more. The infatuation just bubbled beneath the surface, never in danger of escaping. You were never destined to meet him, your most coveted, most secret amore, but fate proved otherwise.

When you first heard that Barry B. Benson, the most popular honeybee in the world, who was sought after by millions of women, was going to work at your office, you were very confused. “Wait,” you asked your boss when he told you, “an actual bee will be working here as a journalist?” Can he even type? you wanted to ask as well, but societal conventions served to scratch out that idea quickly. If the bee could convince governments to protect the bees, he could probably write the greatest work of journalism on earth with only his stinger. It was not unusual for the unusual to occur, after all. 

Wait, did they make bee-sized laptops? 

Before he was to come to your workplace, you researched him once more, refreshing all of the knowledge on the bee. Old memories became a fresh source of information. From what you know, Mr. Benson (as your boss ordered you to call him) was a serial sex-addict and a massive flirt. He’d romance some random lady and run off with her for a day before dumping her and running off to the next lady in line. He doesn’t seem to have a type, though he often went for women of average height. Many theories as to how he even conducted sex came in dozens online. None of his former lovers dared divulge such precious information. One statement from a former fling written in a tabloid article suggests that he wasn’t was he seemed to be, but she was called a “nutter” in the same article. After a few hours of heavy research, you finally accepted that you would never even be a thought in his mind. Your crush would never be fulfilled. 

Now, that day has come, and you were now working alongside the most charming bee who ever lived. With a sigh, you continue to type out your article, scanning it every few minutes to check on the formatting. Neatness was a must in the journalism field: if it looked like you hated writing it, why expect your readers to enjoy looking at it? Don’t waste a subscriber’s time was practically a mantra with the amount of times you would repeat it to yourself.

Muttering over your cubicle wall kept you informed on the office gossip. Apparently, Sandra Clyde who worked at the Sports section already made her move on Mr. Benson. A high-pitched and rather monotonous voice over the wall tells you that she tried to corner him at the pantry. You have a feeling that she would no longer be around in a few day’s time. Sexual assault was no laughing matter, much less done onto an internationally known honeybee with a reputation for being brash and rather upfront with his love of sex. 

As you munch on your pasta you microwaved at the kitchens, you look over the wall once more, curious as to how Barry B. Benson was taking in the new culture around him. With a chuckle, you notice that he seems to be lost, turning his head every few seconds in a voiceless plea for guidance. For a moment, he looked almost as innocent as a baby. You call his name. He looks up, relieved. 

“Hey, Y/N! Glad to see you again. Want to talk?” He grins up at you, adjusting his tie. You blush and nod your head. He exits his cubicle and flies over to yours, hands stuffed into his jumper. Bumbling over to where you were sitting, he took out a small piece of paper from within his pockets and hands it over to you. 

“This is my number,” he says, “just in case you need to give me a call. Or if you want to, have a conversation on your favourite kind of bee.”

“You’re my favourite kind of bee, Mr. Benson…” you jokingly flirt back. He chuckles and looks over at you, raising a single eyebrow and adjusting something inside his trousers. You want to die. After a long and deafening pause, he shifts in the air and prepares to land. 

“Y’know, Y/N, call me Barry. I want to hear you say my name.” He flutters to you and lands on your work desk, swinging his legs over the ledge as though nothing was going on. He spreads his legs, and you can see that his package is rather big. You gulp in nervousness. “Say my name, Y/N,” he says to you, his voice husky as though he’s keeping something dangerous inside. He hops onto your lap, landing on your grey slacks like it was a normal thing to do. 

Looking down at him with a face as red as a tomato, you stutter it out softly, shifting your legs at the uncomfortable moistness that begins to form. He stays quiet but is a little tense, seeming as if he can sense something. A few seconds pass, and the courage comes to you. “B-Barry.” You pause, unsure. “Your name is Barry. I-I like it. Is it short for anything specific?”

“Bartholomew, fitting for a saintly bee with saintly morals. Parents, right?” He crosses his arms and smiles up at you, spreading his legs even wider. With a blush, you place your hands on you armrests to steady yourself. “I like you, Y/N. I really like you and that brain of yours. I want to know you more.” He hesitates. “Let me take you out this Saturday or whenever you’re free. Talking alone, just the two of us. And that face of yours is just a plus.” Chuckling to himself, he continues, “So, yes or no?”

Of course it’s a YES.

But you don’t say that. “B-but isn’t that a stupid move? You’re you and I’m… I’m just plain ol’ me.” You stop for a while, thinking it through some more. “And you are a bee.” Quickly, you sputter out, “N-not that romance for a bee is wrong, Barry! Love is great, human or not. It’s just… bestiality isn’t really common practice in modern society.” 

“So let’s make it common practice.” You gasp. “You and me against the world—you know the drill. We can make love right out on the street, have a couple news outlets film it.” He flies over to your right shoulder, standing as if he was the angel to your other shoulder’s demon. It seemed almost fitting for him to be there, like when a parrot would sit on a pirate’s shoulder or when a cat would nap on you as you lounged in the sofa. Walking over to your ear, he sighs, the small puff of breath a light breeze against the tender skin of your flushed cheek. 

With his small hands, he caresses the shell of your ear, tracing the shape of it, almost as though he were memorising its form. He bowed his head into the hollow of your ear and whispered softly, “I want to make love to you, Y/N. I want to give you all that I am. What I actually am.” He chuckles, the deep, husky sound almost like a Pavlov signal of arousal. But it just disgusts you. This isn’t what you wanted at all. “I want to own you, dominate you. I want you to become my bitch.” He touches your cheek once more, its furry texture making you shiver in nervousness. “I can smell your arousal, Y/N. It’s such a sweet smell, almost like honey.” Licking his lips, he says, “I know you want me. I know you want me to fuck you.” He pauses, his lips twisted back into a smirk, once thought to be charming but now just an indication of his disgusting infatuation with you. “I’ve been searching for you for years. And now that I’ve found you, I want to have you all to myself.” He licks your ear, and you whimper in fear. “So, yes… or no?”

Embarrassed, you slap the perverted bee off your shoulder. “How-how dare you say that!” The attraction you once had for the charming honeybee seemed to have vanished. You peer down at him as he lies sprawled on the floor. His bug-eyes look up at you, confused but unwilling to understand. They simply stare, almost like a gape in space and time. Barry smirked, but it seemed almost unfitting on his face. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You tell me to--to let myself be filmed having an amorous affair with you on the streets? Are you out of your mind, Barry?” You laugh, not really humoured but rather disturbed by the turn of events. You stand up and slam your laptop shut, not really caring about how loud you are being. 

“Wait, Y/N! It was a joke! I swear!” But he still had that look in his eye, as if he really was serious in his demands. He really wants to hurt you. 

“Oh, I know, Barry. Because everything is a joke to you.” You huff. “You dare try to seduce me in my office space? How can you ask me out to dinner then ask me to become your—your bitch in one minute? Are you mad?” You whisper, “I thought you really were interested in me.” Glaring down at him, you finish, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Mr. Benson. You only get my body when you’ve charmed me enough. You’re starting from square one with that reprehensible behaviour of yours. Goodbye!” You pick up your laptop and march away, too nervous to work at such a close distance from the bee you once thought of as kind and charming. 

Now that you know his personality, the last buzzes of arousal he caused seemed to fizz away. But deep inside, you know that the flickers of love and admiration you hold for him will stay a while longer. What disturbed you most was not that you were in love with a bee, but that even with his disgusting behaviour, a part of you knew that the feelings weren’t going away. All you could hope for was that they vanished sooner or later, or anger will take its place. 

You snap back to reality. Fishing your car keys out of your pocket, you sigh and attempt to blink your tears away. All of your dreams had just been shattered in a moment. Barry B Benson was not what who everyone thought he was. You fling open your car’s door and toss your laptop into the passenger’s seat. After locking the door, you hesitate for a moment before letting all of your tears go down your cheek. All of the disappointment and heartbreak come in floods, dropping down on your slacks like rain. 

And right behind you, sitting calmly on the headrest of your driver’s seat, is Barry B. Benson with a charming but devious smile on his face. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART 2

Barry B. Benson. That was his name.

Average guy (well, bee), wore striped sweaters like a second flesh. He was the saviour of all Bee-kind, the greatest bee on earth who gave the bees back their honey. Barry was the nice guy, the face of Good who fought back against a system that was practically built to oppress the weak. In short, bee beat bad boy, best boy bee become.

And that system was no more now, the past — an event people write in the history books, an event that showed everyone triumph and defeat. It was in the mouth of every bee, a signal to fight back and be victors in their own battle. The French Revolution of bees, it was the banner lifted to start war. The red, white, and blue flower on every bee’s breast was the stinger on their behinds that longed to imbed themselves in the evilness that was man. The thief was to be no more, and the bee would be triumphant. Horns would play, and the booming drums of war would play in the background as the mighty gavel of Lady Justice would strike down. 

Bonaparte — Zedong — Castro — Benson; what was the difference? Heroes to their people. He was practically Jesus, the once blushing and blood-covered babe that God has bestowed upon mankind to save man from his own folly. Barry was of Christ, the Saviour that was destined to be the greatest of all, who would open the gates of Heaven and bring forth a new era of peace and harmony. After the tumultuous battle would there be smiles on faces once more — that he knew. The good would defeat evil, just as the dissenter Lucifer was struck down by Archangel Michael. The most beloved of all, Barry B. Benson, was a yellow and black glimmering ball of hope in the battlefield that was life. 

There is a saying that begins with, “The sins of the father,” a saying that states that our father’s sins are our own, and our children’s as well. Sin flows in their blood, from forefather to forefather, almost like a genetic heirloom, a dominant trait inherited just as our eyes or our hair colour come from our fathers and mothers. Bright red ignominy, putrid water that flows from Hell like stinging acid — the humans simply bear children and hand over the baton of evil and blind themselves to the mistakes, indolent and asinine. So unfair, so unreasonable to Barry. The father took my honey, the son took my honey, and so did their families! — A thief bears a thief, just as a hoarder bears a hoarder and a whore bears a whore. 

What was the mistake in his logic? His forefathers experienced the worst of his fears, the brunt of the beatings. Their pain was his, almost like a thread of pain leading from his first father to him, a never-ending string of anger and suffering. And in turn, the humans received from their fathers the greed and sadism that was rampant in their genetic code. 

The need for honey was universal amongst bees. And humans. The saccharine taste, the stickiness of the sweet, sweet honey as it glued itself to the roof of one’s mouth, so delicious and sinful on the tongue. The addictive flavour, the fruit of a bee’s never-ending labour, the syrupy drug that adorned many American households like a blight on suburbia — honey was the liquid that kept the world running. It was the Atlas that kept earth from falling into the pits of nothingness. Humans, still in touch with their savage side, consumed honey like it was water from the fountain of Youth. Billions and billions of dollars spent on something bees thought simply of as a meal after a day of hard work. 

Their unstoppable desire for something that never was theirs was always man’s downfall. They put effort into great sins but blind themselves to the results of their imprudence. And when the so-called little guy fights back, they are, for some unknown reason, always shocked, as if their being the oppressor was the best thing that had ever happened.

So Barry fought, and he and his brethren won unanimously. Man saw his mistakes before his eyes, and they learned.

But Barry was wrong. The influx of honey was too great, too excessive. The bees became fat and lazy, unused to having all the time to lounge about and not work. Jobs vanished with the slam of Lady Justice’s gavel, and so did morale. Uprisings, protests, worker bees united to get back what they never wanted, for they did not know a life without it. Just as a man fights for the simplest pleasures, the worker bee fought for forced labour. The peace was broken because of disillusioned bees who longed once more for oppression. Honey was life, and not being able to go out and collect it was the worst thing to ever happen to bee-kind and mankind in turn. 

Barry B. Benson became frustrated. Everything he had worked for had just gone to waste. And, having every pleasure left in his short life being taken away from his hands one by one, he turned to the only thing that would never leave him: sex. 

The gentle touches of a woman were something he never knew he would enjoy. After all, as a bee, those things seemed almost impossible, a feat that would never be done as long as life was around on earth. It wasn’t just his size. It was the simple fact that he was a bee while a woman was, of course, a woman. 

But, as Barry later learned, human women did not care all that much about that. He was successful, that he knew to some extent. What he did not know was how successful and attractive he looked to others. Women were practically bending down for him, prone and ready for claiming just like a bitch in heat. They leaked lust from every pore and orifice in their bodies, willingly letting themselves be taken by the bee that gave his brethren freedom. He was a hero in their eyes, the proponent of true freedom. Humans thought heroes were sexy, and Barry was just that — a hero. 

Barry first had sex with a human woman just mere months after the judge ruled in his favour. No, not with Vanessa — even the mere thought of doing that was disturbing — but with a news anchor for the local news. Amelia Grace, a newly hired script writer, 24 years old. She was very beautiful, Barry remembered. Amelia was the definition of an All-American girl: blonde, busty, blue-eyed, and extremely hot. He fucked her on her parents’ sofa. That was fun. 

After the first time, he was obsessed. And with obsession came pure passion.

Sex for Barry was always sadistic and erotic. The sensual touches and the electric shocks as skin met skin, as lips met lips was addictive, almost sacred. Fluids mixed together as woman and bee became one, sticky and acrid and wet. The beating of his heart as he dominated the very species that once enslaved he and his fellow bees was erratic, quickening as every woman he fucked moaned in pure pleasure, leaving themselves vulnerable to his touches. He thrived. There was always that feeling of joy when whatever slut he would fuck that day would clench their slick walls tight and seized at the wrinkled bedsheets, tears flowing down their cheeks as he ignored their pleas for help. Their soft flesh would be hot to the touch, almost burning him as he grasped their hips and pounded in deeper. As he kissed their plump lips with vigour, he would wonder how he became so lucky as to be given such power, to have the power to make a woman cry and beg for him to stop. 

News outlets soon labeled him a sex fiend, a chronic flirt who could never keep his cock in his pants — the very cock thousands of girls would dream of having inside them, not knowing what kind of creature he was in bed. The women he fucked knew to keep quiet or risk everything they held precious. The older ones had to be threatened some more. The younger ones, the virgins, on the other hand, didn’t even need to be whipped and held down for hours; they simply knew that talking wouldn’t help at all.

There were a few special ones he remembered, the rest a blur in his mind. One girl he fucked had pretty green eyes and a massive set of tits that drew him in immediately when he met her. Another lady had fiery red hair that he could grab like reins as he fucked her from behind. But there was a special one, the person of his dreams, and that person’s name was Y/N.

The first time he met Y/N was at a journalists celebratory party, as lame as it was. It was a simple gathering with veggie platters and different wines and house music playing in the background. There was a cake of a forgotten flavour half-eaten on the buffet table, its bright green colour stark against the reds and oranges and browns of the snacks that lined the table. And that’s where he found Y/N, busy snacking on a coconut shrimp as if all was right in the world. Barry was not a fan of seafood, so he had no clue why the journalist was so hyper focused on the fried shrimp. But he could not help but appreciate the raw pleasure on the journalist’s face, the smile as another shrimp was devoured with gusto.

Y/N was very beautiful and sexier than expected, the bee noticed. Barry could imagine all of the positions they could be in if the night ended just as he wanted it. With long, toned legs and a cute smile that attracted Barry like a moth to a lamp, the bee couldn’t help but wonder why he had never seen this person before. She was perfect, with smooth hair and dark lashes that brushed her cheeks as she blinked. A name tag was pinned above her left breast, gold letters glimmering under the flashing lights. Her face was a deep red, and she stumbled as she walked toward the next platter, which was filled to the brim with pizza rolls. Barry didn’t really enjoy fucking drunk people, especially when they looked like they wouldn’t even remember it at all. With a sigh, he left the journalist to her food, disappointed at not being able to exchange a few words. 

After finally seeing someone worth his time, he just had to be near her again. Immediately, he dialled his secretary, a taciturn middle-aged man named Nate who followed his orders to the letter. If he could figure out where Y/N worked, he just needed to apply there too and pull some strings. 

“Hey, Nate, good evening.” His secretary greeted him back politely, voice empty of emotion. “I have a job for you. Yeah, I already ate dinner. I’ll get to that, so don’t ask me again. Anyway, I want you to look up where Y/N works. Yeah, First Name-Last Name, that’s correct.” Nate muttered a question. “No, I don’t know if she has a second name. No, I think it’s not a nickname. Yeah, that’s the right one, average hair. Oh, sure, I’ll call you when you get her details. Yeah, goodnight to you too, man.” He ended the call and shoved his miniature phone into his pocket, a small smile on his face. 

—————————————————————————————————————  
Nate thought himself to be a good worker, efficient and hardworking. He did whatever he was ordered to do to the letter. In fact, he would sometimes skip meals or important events just to complete his work and compensate for whatever he missed when he had free time. If he had to describe himself using adjectives directed at him, it would probably be systematic. There was no issue with that, if he were to be honest; he’d rather be called systematic or robotic than the cursed word — bootlicker. 

He was called a bootlicker often, mostly by his family (especially his mother, God bless her soul). If not because he skipped his sister’s wedding to reprogram an Excel engine he used to organise his files or because he brought his nephew to work on a Sunday when he had babysitting duty, but simply because he seemed like one. Was it because he dressed too well? Or because he enjoyed working on Sundays? It was confusing. But the more Nate thought about it, the more reasonable their complaints were.

Currently, he was working on giving his boss, Mr. Benson, a guaranteed job at a small-town newspaper as a journalist. Apparently, he fancied a woman he met at a function and suddenly had the urge to become Barbie 2.0 in terms of number of jobs. After searching meticulously and scouring the internet for this woman, he finally discovered her name, her e-mail address, and her workplace. Perfect, he remembered thinking as he messaged Mr. Benson all the information he gathered. After a day or so, he had clutched his head in shame, realising how utterly perverted every single thing he did was. But he had to do as sir wanted or risk losing a well-paying job.

Flipping once more through his file of contacts in the journalism field (File A2, he recently discovered), Nate found that the resumé was to be sent in person. Mr. Benson, he knew, was a busy person. He could judge that since he was in charge of his schedule. As he scanned his boss’ schedule for a free weekday where he could hand in the resumé, he continued to flip through File A2, using his left hand to highlight in yellow those he considered as potential persons who could recommend Mr. Benson for the job. With a sigh, he closed the file and stored it back into its compartment.

After shutting down his computer, he walked out of his office and went over to the kitchenette, feeling rather peckish. He looked at the options given to him: a pack of Oreos, off-brand biscuits from the dollar store, chocolate bars of questionable quality, and cold sandwiches. Picking up a ham and cheese sandwich, he walked to the mini fridge and swung open the door. He grabbed a can of cold pineapple juice and went back to his office, laying his afternoon snack down on his work desk. He opened his can of juice and took a small sip, smacking his lips at the semi-sweet and acidic taste of the pineapple. 

He sat down on his swivel chair, resting his feet down on the carpeted floor and opening the wrapper of his sandwich. He bit into the stiff and crumbly bread, chewing quietly as he looked around his office. The urge to clean up almost overtook the physical need for food, but he overcame the rather unusual desire and decided to finish his snack, taking bite after bite out of the sandwich. He chewed on the last piece of his sandwich, washing it down with the juice before tossing the trash into the bin. Nate sighed and rubbed his stomach, feeling slightly satisfied enough to continue with his work. 

A soft buzz on his desk captured his attention, and he found that it was his phone ringing; his boss was calling him again. He picked it up and answered the call, breathing through his nose so as to not disturb Mr Benson. A tick formed on his head and his lips twitched. It had to be one of those days where Mr Benson dials him for the most mundane of reasons (i.e. all days excluding Sundays). 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Benson. How may I help you?” he asked sweetly, almost too saccharine to be authentic. 

“Hey, Nate, what’s up?” 

Choosing to ignore the question, he spat out, “Mr. Benson, do you need something from me right now?” He did not mean to sound standoffish, but his boss was being rather…annoying as of late. From having to go all the way to Wisconsin to buy fresh cheese curds to hiring a Math tutor for Mr. Benson simply because she was, in sir’s words, “really, really sexy, I swear”. Nate was a few orders away from quitting his job. Softening his voice, he said, “I apologise, sir. And I already gave you the information you required of me. Did I miss anything pertinent?”

“Heh, sure, forgiven, forgiven, forgi~ven!” Why did his boss have to be so loud, Nate asked himself. “Oh, yeah, no, it’s not about the hot journalist I want to fuck, Nate. I was simply…wondering if you want to hang out?” 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not sure if that is a possibility today.” That was difficult to say, Nate snickered in his mind. 

He heard a loud and crackly sigh from the other line. “And why is that so? I just want your company right now. Is that too much to ask for?” Nate bit his lip before he could spit out a biting retort. “You know, Nate, I’ve been thinking a lot about…promoting you.”

“And what do I have to give up for this supposed promotion, Mr. Benson?” Knowing the kind of…bee his boss was, Nate could conclude that it was either his virginity or extra workload on weekends. When a few seconds passed, he said, “Sorry, Mr Benson, but I must decline your, uh, wonderful invitation. I am still working on that meeting with P&G we’ve been planning for weeks. The venue hasn’t been finalised as of today, sir.”

“Why do you always assume I want something in return? What kind of boss do you think I am?” Mr. Benson chuckled. Nate swore he heard the bee call him a tease, but chose to ignore it. 

A psychopathic, megalomaniacal sex fiend, Nate almost replied, but he kept his mouth shut, desperately wanting to keep his job thank you very much. When a decent answer did not come to mind, he said, “Well, sir, I’d rather not comment unless I state my answer in person.” He wanted to slam his head down on his work desk. This conversation was getting worse. 

“Then come over, Nate. You know the address, right?”

Nate’s eye twitched as he stared at the screen of his phone, tempted to end the call. In the end, he decided against it; his job paid well, and losing it because he didn’t want to visit his boss’ home was, in childish terms, stupid. Mierda, he thought, and, in finality, bowed his head and answered. “Alright, Mr Benson, expect me in half an hour or so, depending on traffic conditions.” Before the bee could end the call, he interjected, “Do you need me to bring something, sir?”

“Nothing… Just, uh, dress well. Yeah, and use some mouthwash. And get me that nice bottle of rosé from the mini fridge in my office. You know which one, right? See you.” 

A beep later, and Nate was sentenced to his fate. 

Nate sighed. It was, indeed, one of those days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART 3

 

Watching frozen lasagna spinning around in the microwave, one would think that Barry Benson was struggling to stay alive and earn a living. Three beeps pass, and the microwave’s single, tinted door swung open, revealing a steaming hot tray of discounted lasagna from the dollar store. He grabbed it from the glass plate and hissed as it burned his hand. He dropped it down on the kitchen counter and nursed his burnt palm, shoving his entire thumb into his mouth. 

The doorbell rang, and Barry turned to the door. “Comin’!” he called out and ran to his entrance, unlocking the seven bolts that kept him separated from rabid fans (a great suggestion from his beautiful and wonderful and amazing friend Vanessa). Swinging it open, he gave his visitor a big smile. 

“Hey, Nate, why dontcha come in!” He pulled the young man inside his house and grabbed the bottle of rosé from his hand. “Nice, you actually did it!” He flew onto his secretary’s shoulder and sat down. “Now, be a dear and lock my door. Oh, and walk us to my couch. And get me the lasagna I just took out of the microwave too.”

“I like that you have faith in me, sir,” the other man said as he redid all of the locks. His breath smelled of mouthwash. “But I’m not a slave or a miracle worker.” Barry chuckled and flew off his shoulder, reaching out to pinch the man’s cheeks.

“So cute~!” he exclaimed. “Now, how about you sit right over there,” he gestured at the light grey sofa, “and put this on the coffee table,” he handed over the bottle of rosé, “and I’ll grab the lasagna and the glasses, yeah?” 

Nate shifted in his place. “Of course, sir,” he uttered and walked to the sofa, sitting down beside one of the armrests and leaning against it, exposing a portion of his midriff. That was really, really adorable and really, really sexy at the same time. Barry did whatever he needed to do, mind muddled with thoughts of pretty journalists and his own sexy secretary in bed with him. He also remembered to grab the lavender bottle that contained his special drug. 

A lasagna and an entire bottle of rosé later, and they were slightly tipsy (well, Barry was) and extremely giddy. Nate was flush in the face and slurring his words, while Barry could still form a logical thought. He hardened in his pants, unable to think about anything but all the positions he could put dear Nate in as the night passed by them. He chuckled and looked over at the slightly intoxicated man beside him, who was currently struggling to shove the last bite of his chocolate (Thank God for rabid admirers on Valentine’s Day, he thought) into his mouth, mumbling curses as it missed its target for the seventh time in a row. 

The bottle in his pants shifted as he adjusted his seating, leaning on the backrest and staring into his secretary’s eyes. He shoved his hand into his pocket and touched it once more, smile widening as Nate, precious and dear Nate, dropped the piece of chocolate on his lap and snickered with glee. 

He asked, “D’ya need help, Nate?” The other man shook his head and attempted to pick up the piece of chocolate once more. I think added too much, Barry wondered morosely. The secretary looked a little too drugged out, he finally admitted to himself. He probably got too excited and added an extra tablespoon or so. It happened sometimes. Sadly, the drugged ones weren’t all that great in bed. He would have to wait until it metabolised before doing anything. Before then, he thought, Nate would have to go into his secret room, and that wasn’t good at all. Sighing to himself, he changed forms and picked up the other man, tossing him over his shoulder and walking upstairs to his bedroom. Once he reached the door, he went in and gently laid Nate under the comforters, pulling it up to the other man’s chin, and watched as the man’s breathing slowed down. 

STORY ENDS HERE -------


End file.
